Queen of the North
by loverlache
Summary: Sansa Stark is a lost young woman, wishing to regain her right to Winterfell, and protect the north of Westeros. Sandor Clegane is a lost man, unsure of who he is and what he lives for. Together they work to rebuild their lives as the Game of Thrones wages around them. A story in progress. I love Sandor and Sansa, they are a lovely pairing and full of story potential!
1. Chapter 1

The sky blackened with rolling clouds, and Sansa felt the first drops of rain on her face. It was cold rain, cooled by the wintery weather, and far from welcome. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together.

_Why,_ she thought. _The cold and the hunger is enough. Now…this._ She felt her own warm tears mingle with the skys.

Sansa stood alone on what was once a well worn road. Now it was merely a smudge of mud, a dark scar surrounded by bleak, empty fields decorated by scrub. It was a desolation, but the scenery was by now familiar. Everywhere she had gone since fleeing the Vale was the same. Burnt, ruined….empty.

_Like me,_ she thought.

For all her life, Sansa had always believed in the stories. In happy endings, in the truth of right and wrong, in knights and songs and tourneys. In white cloaks. Now she felt that all she had to look forward to was pain, pain and powerlessness. Since that say she had left Winterfell, she had been but a pawn in others' games.

And the one time she had decided enough, it was time to act, to grab her chance and flee, it had been her worst mistake. I was a fool, she thought. She pushed her dampening hair back from her eyes. If Arya were here, she'd know how to make shelter. How to light a fire. All I have are stories.

But still, Sansa still took another step, and another…

Later, after the rain had passed and the moon rose higher, she felt the temperature dip further, and the burr of frost begin to form on the passing trees. Her stomach gripped with pain, its third day empty. She had a hunger so savage it stripped her of any wherewithal against the cold, and her heart, also starving, struggled to find courage. She was weakening, she knew. If she found no food or shelter soon…

Perhaps this is the end, she thought dully. And then, a shiver of fear. _No. Please._

Slowing her walk, Sansa turned her mind back to those last few days with Petyr. She remembered those cool eyes regarding her, always looking, staring. Then his hands…

_I had to get away. I had no choice. I –_

Suddenly, her ankle gave away under her, causing her to stagger and fall. Icy water and mud splashed around her as she landed heavily on her side. A sharp pain ran up her leg, causing her to cry out. For a moment, she just lay there, allowing the icy puddle water below her to seep into her clothing, soaking what was already damp, freezing what was already so very, very cold. But the wolf stirred again, and she slowly pushed herself to sit, pulling her leg around to inspect her leg.

The ankle was already swelling, she saw. Her heart sank further still, and then, the tears returned. She placed her hands to her face and sobbed, her body bending over itself in the mud and ice, shuddering with the force of her hopelessness, with her pain, with her loss.

After a time, she felt she had no more tears to cry, but she also could not seem to rouse herself to rise and try to walk. _Perhaps… I should rest._ Leaning over herself, she pushed her arms out in front of her, and closed her eyes. She imagined herself a puppet, a puppet with her strings finally cut, crumpled and lifeless on the ground.

Then she felt the dreams arrive. No longer could she feel the cold and hunger in her body, but instead a warmth started to envelop her, a welcoming, peaceful warmth. She remembered Winterfell, and Old Nan, and lemon cakes, and all the things she had loved so much.

She felt her body move backwards, floating as it moved, allowing her to gaze up at a bright, starry sky. A figure then loomed over her, hooded and shadowed, but she was unafraid. "I know you," she murmured, as she closed her eyes.

* * *

When Sansa awoke, it was to a bright sunlit room, and she lay in a small but comfortable bed, warm and safe. For a moment she had to reach to remember where she had been, where she had come from. When she moved and felt the pain in her ankle, she remembered.

As she stirred, and became aware of a shrouded woman sat by a crackling fire to her left. The woman had been knitting, but had stopped, and was now regarding Sansa with kind, gentle eyes.

"Where…..where am I?," Sansa asked, her voice raw against her throat. "Who…"

"Quiet, child, and save your energy," replied the woman, laying her knitting aside and rising to move towards the bed. As she rose Sansa saw she wore garb similar to the Silent Sisters, but it was white, and her smile suggested a soul that spoke to the gods of life, not of death.

"You're at the Quiet Isle, my lady, a refuge for many. I'm Sister Beatrice, and at your service til you are recovered. Now, are you hungry?"

She reached out a hand and touched Sansa's arm as she spoke, and for a moment the sun touched her sleeve, showing a delicate embroidery dedicated to The Mother.

Sansa looked up at her, her eyes filling with tears, "How….."

"Elder Brother will be along to explain all, child. Trust for now that you are safe, and warm, and soon to be fed, and among friends," She moved away then, and made towards a dark, ornate wooden door, her robes gliding noiselessly behind her feet. As she opened the door, she turned again, and smiled, "Bread and cheese?"

Sister Beatrice was as good as her word, returning swiftly with food and two other Sisters carrying a bath and pails of steaming hot water. As Sansa ate they filled the bath, placing it next to the fire, and filling it with scented oils that smelled of lavender and camomile.

Gently, they then lifted her from the bed, removing a nightdress of white cotton, and slipped her into the water. As they did so she looked down at her body – bruised and bony, her ankle swollen and red, but she was complete, and very much alive. Wordlessly, they cleaned her and washed her hair, stripping it of the dark dye so that it filled the water around her.

Finally, they wrapped her in a warm robe, and sat her by the fire with a glass of warm milk.

A knock at the door was then quickly answered, and following the murmuring of voices, Sansa saw a man enter the room, dressed in robes but of an earthy brown. He was a tall man, with a large, shaven head, shrewd eyes, a veined, red nose, and a heavy jaw.

As he walked towards her, the sisters quickly pulled another chair from the corner, and placed it opposite Sansa for the man to seat himself. Then, the two sisters disappeared, carrying the bath pail with them, although Sister Beatrice stayed, seating herself quietly on Sansa's bed like a lady-in-waiting.

She must have seen the uncertainty then in Sansa's eyes. "Lady Sansa, this is our Elder Brother, and can answer your questions," she said. "By The Mother, you are safe, as you are with the God's servants here."

Sansa looked at the Brother, noting his kindly face, but a voice in her head reminded her of kindly faces in the past. Kindly faces shielding desires for her claim, for her name, for her kiss….

"Forgive me, brother," she said at last, cautiously. "I'm Sansa of House Stark. Something you appear to know…."

The older man's lips pressed together before he spoke. "You have Lord Clegane to thank for that. He has told us much about you these past months. It was he that found you, and carried you thus."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat at his name, and her confusion must have been plain to see, for the Brother quickly continued. "We found him too, many moons past, broken and bleeding in the road. We brought him here, to gather himself, to repair and renew. But his heart was always set on finding you. It took him but two months to do it."

"A dog….. has fine tracking skills," Sansa said stupidly, though her mind was elsewhere. _The Hound….was alive? Was here?_ She turned her head instinctively to gaze towards a large window on the opposite side of the bedroom.

"He's no dog. No more," said the Brother, firmly. "So, I hope you realise that Clegane, for all his past misdeeds, would never put you in harms way. So you are safe enough with us. I know you have been though much, and no doubt will suffer more before the game of Thrones is done. But for now, you are safe, and safe to plan your future as you recover your strength. Stay, or leave, as you will."

Sansa had no words to say, and her mouth hung open as she struggled to understand. Finally, the Brother stood, came towards her, and offered her an arm. "Come,' he said, gently. "Let me show you."

Sansa rose unsteadily, but leaning on the Brother she allowed him to lead her towards the tall glass window, where a beautiful island view appeared before her, bathed in a bright winter sunlight. Busy brothers and sisters milled around below in a cobbled yard, and closely behind rose a undulating graveyard. Further still she saw the sea, creating a wall of water between the Isle and the mainland. The sun sparkled off the water.

As her eyes adjusted, she spied upon the graveyard a figure she recognised. Stripped to the waist, Sandor Clegane was digging, his hands tightly gripping the shovel and he heaved soil from the ground. His hair was now short, cropped closely to his head, and he looked leaner, but he was unmistakable with his size and scarred face. Although wisps of snow were falling, she could see steam rising from his body as he repeatedly stabbed at the ground.

"I had hoped he might join us," said the Brother. "But after six months as a novice, it was clear the Gods were not to be his redemption. Instead, I fear, that is a task that sits on your shoulders,"

He turned his head to look at her with serious, steady eyes. "He is sick with love for you. Whether it be brotherly or no, I couldn't say, but there is a force within him now that drives him to protect you come what may. He tracked you to the Vale, and then, on hearing of your escape, followed you at a distance until he could bear no more."

Sansa turned her eyes again back to the window. "He saved me. But…he stole a song," she whispered.

"Yes," said the Brother, quietly. "I know. But a song that killed the Hound, or helped to drive him out. The Hound was a vicious child built on pain and violence, with no-one to love and nothing to live for save the death of his brother. Sandor Clegane gave a young woman a cloak and with it his heart. The Hound had to die in order for Clegane to live. Do you understand?"

Sansa turned back to the Brother with comprehension in her eyes. "But what…. what if I don't love _him_?" she asked. "Will the Hound return?"

The Elder Brother reached up and cupped her face in his hands. "The Hound is dead and buried. What Sandor becomes now is his affair and his choice. But do not fear him, I beg you. He will never harm you, as to harm you is to harm himself. Do not drive him away though, please…" The Brother looked at her, imploringly. "At least not yet. Not until you know your mind and your future. Until then, he is here for you, and will do and go wherever you bid, of that I am certain."


	2. Chapter 2

It was weeks until Sansa felt fit enough to finally call on him to speak. Fit both physically, but also in her mind. The last time she had seen him, he had stole a song…. And a kiss, she remembered.

_But that was the Hound,_ she reminded herself. _Though the kiss…?_

She called for Beatrice to dress her that morning, in a heavy woollen dress and winter furs. She combed her hair and took care over her face, and then when she was ready took herself from her room, down the stairs and out into the courtyard. She had walked here before, and looked up again at the stony walls that reminded her so much of Winterfell, with both gratitude and, today, sadness.

Beatrice walked behind her, her face as ever set in a peaceful smile. "Do you want me to come with you, my Lady?" she asked, as Sansa took her first steps towards the churchyard gate.

"No," Sansa replied, but returned the smile with as much love as she could muster. Beatrice had been such a comfort and a friend to her these past few weeks, she felt as if they were sisters. She knew it would be so very hard to leave her, and this place, but equally she knew that very soon, she must.

_If, of course, he will help._

Sansa placed a hand on the gate and pushed it aside, before stepping out alone onto the hilly field. It was as usual covered with a fine sheet of snow, and the ground was rock hard beneath her feet, in places cracking with ice. She could see her breath before he face as she started to walk towards the large figure just on the near horizon, moving between wooden posts that marked the graves of the fallen.

As she drew closer to him, she saw him stiffen slightly, and knew that he felt her near. But he still continued to work the ground, grinding the edge of the shovel into the hard soil, and turning it over to create an ever deepening hole. She finally drew up alongside him, and pulled her fur hood back from her face.

"My Lord," she said, steadying her voice, "I am sorry I have not come to you before. But I wish to thank you, again, for saving my life."

She had expected him to stop shovelling, but he continued for a moment, as if considering her words. As he did so she watched as his muscles on his naked torso shuddered with every crash of the shovel against the ground, and noticed the sheen of sweat of his body.

He was lean and muscular, and smooth of skin save for many scars and a mat of dark hair on his chest. Although his arm showed fresh burn marks, most of his skin shone in the low morning light. It was only when he finally stopped digging, and turned to her, that she was reminded of his terrible face. He regarded her with steady, unreadable eyes.

"Little bird," he said, his voice raw and harsh. "Your thanks are unnecessary. "

_So not that changed,_ she thought, and for a moment was strangely relieved.

"Well, they are yours, all the same."

He dropped his shovel then with a thud, and moved towards her, limping, she noted, ever so slightly on one leg. "Then I had best look upon my Lady," he said. "And see what it is that I have saved."

As he drew near, she noticed that he turned his better side of face towards her, so she was protected slightly from the full view of his burned side. His short hair made it easier to see both, and for the first time she noticed his strong jaw and fine cheekbones on his good side, that worked well against his strong Roman nose. His face and body were tanned a golden colour from working in the winter sun.

_He could have been handsome,_ she thought, sadly.

For a while he regarded her, and she tried to look for the love the Brother had spoken of in his face, but saw nothing but mystery in those grey, soulful eyes. They were, however, no longer _angry, _she noted.

"So," he said, at last, "Well recovered, and plumper. Though not quite yet the Queen of The North."

"And you are not quite yet Ser Clegane," she replied quickly, "For when I am Queen of the North, knights will be true knights… or at least try to be. And you Ser, still have much to work on in terms of manners."

She noticed then a spark of humour in his eyes. "Ah. So the wolf can bear her claws. As I had hoped, or you would've never made your last name day, let alone ever become a bloody Queen."

And then, before she could mouth a word of reply, he lowered his eyes to the ground and quickly muttered. "Forgive me for the last time we met. I was drunk and a fool."

She opened her mouth in surprise. His chest moved up and down, pushing a mist of breath into the freezing air.

"If you can forgive - we can leave for Winterfell on the morrow, and start the next part of your life."

For a moment, a quiet fell between them, but in a little while she asked, "And what part would that be, Ser?"

She deliberately kept her eyes on his face as he continued to stare into the ground, a mixture of discomfort, regret and...something else unreadable on his face.

"Well, I assume you would have me return you to Winterfell, and rebuild that which has been broken," he replied. "Or am I wrong?" His eyes returned to hers.

She felt then as if she had known this man in some way all her life. Whoever he was, he was someone she knew, at some deep level, she realised, although she also knew him not at all.

"Sandor Clegane may well be rarely wrong, it seems," she replied. "On the morrow, as you say."

* * *

The Brothers and Sisters helped them to pack two horses for their journey. The larger black horse strongly resembled Clegane's old mount, Stranger, she noted, though was called Driftwood. The other was a fine silver horse that suited her size yet still had the strength to carry supplies and clothing.

They rode out early, him dressed simply in a boiled leather tunic and cloth breeches, her in her simple woollens and furs. He hair however had been re-dyed, and their names were not their own. At least on the road, she would again be Alayne.

"You've no sword," she remarked as their horses crossed the secret path from Isle to shore.

"Not on my body," he replied, the he turned to her with a wary look. "Don't tell me killers better suit you now, little Bird?"

It was a while before she finally replied, long enough for the Isle to be far in the distance as they would their way north. Since their exchange, he had been quiet, remarking only on their travels or the greying sky overhead, his mouth set in a grim frown.

She remembered what the Elder Brother had said. _His redemption… is mine to shoulder. _After a while she called out his name and then spoke, softly. "I had only meant… That it is strange to see you, without armour, without a weapon. I'm sorry if I caused offence, my Lord."

He turned then to peer at her, again careful to make sure she was on his good side. He then moved Driftwood to a slower pace, and fell in beside her.

"I haven't worn or carried steel for close to a year. I've not shed blood save for the butchering of pig or fowl," he explained. "The killing... stopped suiting me. "

"Are you sworn to never raise arms again?" she asked quickly, surprised at his admission. This was the fiercest man, the strongest soldier she had ever known. _Had he turned his back on it all? _

"I'm not sworn for anything, save for welcoming the next day," he replied, softly. "And that, is enough, for now." He then looked across at her, with a strange look on his face. For a moment, she thought she saw a flash of vulnerability. Her heart quickly leapt to her throat.

"You meant to die, once," she said, realising the darkness that he had travelled to, and returned from.

"I meant to do many things, none of them good. Until…. ." He stopped his horse then, and turned away slightly, as if he could not speak directly to her. She pulled up too, abruptly, so that her horse gave a little whinny of complaint.

He sighed and looked up at the rolling clouds. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.

"You were a little fool then, full of dreams and stories, but like a moth to a flame I admired you for even thinking life could be so…..perfect. And somehow that lit something in me. Once lit, couldn't be extinguished. _Fire._

"Killing was harder then, somehow. Everything was harder…. I couldn't cut a man down without thinking of his woman, his children. It was...pain. Killing is all I have known, all I wanted to do, all I ever thought I was fit for, and others, damn them, deserved. And then, at the Blackwater. Everything just reminded me of then. Gregor…" His hand moved towards his face.

"My lord, please. Don't speak of it. I meant no harm. I just….I want to know you, " she responded. Her heart was pounding in her chest, she realised." She urged her horse forward, and reached out to touch him, laying her hand on his massive shoulder.

"Why?" he asked, turning to glare at her and shaking off her touch. "You want to know if I can protect you, yes? Whether I will kill for you when it suits you, whether or not it drives me back to my graves?"

For a while the words hung in the air, and she saw immediately that he regretted saying them, by the way he set his jaw and lowered his eyes to the ground. _He trusts no-one,_ she thought, bitterly. _He is wise._

"My Lord," she replied. "I fear I would have been long dead if you had not opened my eyes to the way of things at court. You were right, so many times. I learnt to build a wall of courtesy, and became a better liar. We all build walls. But at what point do the walls cease to protect us, and then start to isolate us?"

She started to rub her hand across his shoulders, as if he were a child in need of comfort. She felt his taught muscles beneath his tunic and felt a surge of feeling in her chest.

"I need you with me," she said. "I need you as my friend. You protected me with your blunt, cruel words, at Kings Landing, more than you did with a sword. You helped me understand, whether I wanted it or no. This is why I need you, whether or not you choose to ever hold a sword again. You are not my hired killer. You needn't be my sworn sword. Just stay with me until….. Winterfell."

He turned to her and looked at her carefully. "I want to build, not destroy," he replied. "I will protect to the death what I help to build, but it must be to fight for a reason, a reason that I believe in. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she replied, and touched his red, scarred face. "It's just like the stories..."


End file.
